


Burned hearts

by ylc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Some pining, conflicted feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5290598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylc/pseuds/ylc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is a turn up, isn't it Sherlock?"<br/>A retell of the pool scene at TGG, in which John IS Moriarty.<br/>(Or isn't he?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this plot bunny… it actually came to me as soon as I saw TGG. The pool scene is just such an emotionally charged scene and when I saw John walk in… well. I meant to write this a long while ago, but I kept talking myself out of it, afraid to mess it up. Then, at the start of this month I was left with no computer and unable to work on my other fic, so I revised this idea and well… here we are!  
> I’m not exactly sure about the tags, so… if you have any suggestions, let me know!  
> Enjoy?

“Evening.”

John walks in, dressed in a sharp suit that Sherlock had never seen before, looking impossibly handsome and so calm and collected that Sherlock’s heart stops. His mind goes completely blank and panic threatens to override all his rational thoughts.

“This is a turn up, isn’t it Sherlock?”

John’s lips turn up into a cruel smirk that makes Sherlock’s heart clench painfully. This can’t be happening, it just can’t. Is this a tramp? An elaborate scheme to confuse him and throw him off his game? It must be, there’s no other explanation. Except-

“John. What the hell-?”

“Bet you never saw this coming,” John says, approaching him, still looking completely relaxed. “Not as good as you thought you were, huh?”

“John-”

“Ah, ah- No. That’s not my name, Sherlock.” He smirks cruelly. “Jim Moriarty, at your service” he bows mockingly, his lips still curled into that unnerving smirk.

“John, what-”

John (Moriarty?) rolls his eyes. “Really? You think this is all… what? A trap? A cruel joke?” he stares thoughtfully at Sherlock for a beat, tilting his head slightly to the side, looking entirely too amused. “Sorry to say darling, but that’s not the case.”

It can’t be. John passed all of Mycroft’s background check ups, otherwise the elder Holmes would have never let Sherlock share apartment with him. And even if Moriarty could have somehow faked John Watson’s whole existence… Sherlock would have noticed, wouldn’t he?

“What can I say?” John says,as if he had just read his mind, his smile bright and a bit crazed. “I’m an excellent actor. Worth of an Academy Nomination, at the very least.”

Sherlock is having trouble breathing; swallowing feels like a major challenge. “It can’t be.”

John shakes his head almost fondly, offering him a fake pitying look. “Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock. You honestly thought that you had finally made a friend? Maybe something more?” he laughs, cruel and amused. “Oh dear, you’re just too precious.”

Sherlock can feel tears pricking the back of his eyes, but forces himself to remain outwardly unmoved. He can’t think; nothing makes sense. He knows this isn’t John, John can’t be Moriarty, he just can’t-

“Don’t misinterpret me: It’s been great fun! Running around London, watching you solve crimes, being with you…” somehow John has come to stand in his personal space and Sherlock takes a step back, suddenly startled by the other man closeness. John smirks. “All great fun really. But I’m afraid the time for games is over.”

“What- what do you want?” Sherlock manages to ask, his voice a strangled murmur. His friend’s (but not really) smirk widens.

“You see, you’re getting on my way now Sherlock,” the other man tells him, taking another step and situating himself back into the detective’s personal space. “I don’t like that.”

“Why- why do all this?” Sherlock asks, “Why get close to me and then- then-?”

“Oh, it’s more fun this way,” John whispers, coming even closer so their chests are now touching. “Don’t you think?” he asks, pressing his lips against Sherlock’s ear and the taller male closes his eyes, the closeness being a little too much for his overwhelmed brain.

“Here,” Sherlock whispers, handing over the memory stick, his hands feeling clammy. “You have what you want, now tell me-”

He feels more than he hears John’s chuckle and he knows he’s going to be sick if this continues for much longer. He can’t say anything else, the urge to vomit too overwhelming. “Oh, darling, you think this is what it was about?” John presses even closer and Sherlock feels a whimper making its way out of his throat. He has been longing to have John this close for so long and yet-

“What do you want?” he demands, knowing he should step back, but his body refuses to obey, too lost in the warmth of the other’s body.

It’s wrong. This isn’t John, even if he looks like John. He shouldn’t-

“I want you to stay out of my business,” the other man whispers against his ear, his breath tickling Sherlock and making not entirely unpleasant shivers run down his spine. Rationally, he knows this is twisted, but his body is having a hard time catching up with his mind and his disgust.

“What if I don’t?” Sherlock asks quietly, pulling the gun he’s carrying out of its hiding place. John chuckles again.

“Are you going to shoot me, Sherlock?” he pulls away a little, so he can stare at his eyes. “Are you, really?”

Sherlock can’t honestly say. He knows he should, but-

John isn’t Moriarty. He just can’t be.

The other male smirks again. “I thought so.” He brings a hand to Sherlock’s cheek, caressing it in a mocking gesture of affection. “Be a good boy now. I’m going to walk out of here and you’re not going to follow me, alright?”

Sherlock tightens his grip on the gun, but doesn’t raise it. The blond smiles once more, before pressing a quick kiss against the taller male’s lips. “Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.”

He turns around and exits the pool calmly, not looking back even once. Sherlock stands where he is, his heart breaking in a hundred million pieces, incapable of processing what has just happened, hoping against hope that this is just a twisted nightmare.

John isn’t Moriarty.

Is he?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone? It’s quite different from how I originally intended it to go, but I do like it.  
> The story is already finished (although I’m still obsessing over details), but I think I’ll be updating once a week until it’s done.  
> Thanks for reading and let me know what you thought!  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock copes with loss, Mycroft worries and Lestrade gets an unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a new chapter! I might have to rethink my posting strategy, because I’ve just realized that I’ve only got 3 weeks before the christmas break so… well.  
> Anyway, enjoy?

Mycroft observes his younger brother, more than a little worried. Sherlock is lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind miles away. He looks sick and pale and Mycroft doesn’t know what he can do to make it better.

He doesn’t know how he missed it. He has yelled at far too many people for messing up with John Watson’s file. It’s unforgivable that he managed to miss that the man moving in with his brother and getting so completely intertwined with Sherlock’s life was, in fact, nothing but an illusion.

And now Sherlock is hurting. He misses the only friend he ever had, the man he might have been in love with. He’s mourning what he can no longer have because it was never real.

Mycroft should have known. Isn’t that his job, as an older brother?

He exits the room, knowing his presence is unnecessary, Sherlock too lost in his own thoughts to notice. He has spent the whole night before and the early morning trying to find out more about James Moriarty. The man is clever and sneaky, he knows they’ll never capture him if he doesn’t want them to. He just showed himself because he was playing a game with Sherlock and now-

It’s beyond cruel what he has done to the consulting detective. It’s also very effective; Sherlock will never actively participate in trying to bring Moriarty down, Mycroft just knows that. It doesn’t matter that he left him brokenhearted; Sherlock won’t ever help to hunt him down now.

“How is he?” Gregory Lestrade showed up at the apartment as soon as he could when Mycroft called to inform him of what had happened. The government official had watched the whole exchange at the pool through his extensive CCTV network and had hurried to his brother’s side, hoping to do some damage control, all the while knowing it was already too late.

He had figured his brother would benefit from having people who cared about him close by, but so far Sherlock has ignored everyone. When Mycroft found him he had already locked himself inside his Mind Palace and ignored everything and everyone ever since.

Mycroft’s heart aches for him and he wishes he knew what to do. “Not well,” he responds slowly, rubbing his temples tiredly. “How did I miss this, Gregory?”

The DI sighs and comes to stand closer, in which Mycroft assumes is meant to be a reassuring gesture. “It’s not your fault,” he assures him eagerly. “This Moriarty fellow is really quite clever. Those puzzles he left for your brother… they were really twisted, I’d tell you.”

“We argued over it.” Sherlock’s voice startles them both and they quickly turn to face the younger man. “John said- he said-” his voice breaks and he looks away, his eyes red rimmed, obviously holding back tears. “He seemed so… disgusted. Angry. Angry that I was enjoying working on the puzzles.”

Lestrade and Mycroft exchange a dark look and then Mycroft goes to his brother, steering him back into the bedroom. “You need to rest, Sherlock. You need-”

“I’m fine,” the younger male argues, shaking his brother off. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose, knowing he’s going to get an awful headache.

It’s going to be a hellish week.

* * *

 

Sherlock’s thoughts run in circles. He remembers perfectly every single interaction he ever had with John and he tries desperately to look for the clues that should have always been there if John was really Moriarty. But he keeps coming up blank and so he keeps hoping-

It’s a pointless exercise, really. He wants to believe it’s all a farce, so of course that even if he picked something up, he’ll overlook it now just as he did before. Can it really be that? Was he so desperate for company, for someone who understood him, that he fell prey of a madman’s game?

He doesn’t think so. But then he remembers their encounter at the pool and he hesitates. The man at the pool wasn’t his John; he didn’t resemble him at all except for their looks. Is it possible that Moriarty is really such a great actor as he claims?

There was something wrong with the whole exchange, but Sherlock can’t point out what. And of course that when he shares his thoughts with Mycroft, his brother tells him he’s being ‘emotional’ and therefore his judgement can’t be trusted.

He’s almost certain that’s not the case. He’s almost sure that John isn’t Moriarty.

But what if he is?

* * *

 

“I would go home now, Detective Inspector.”

Greg freezes as soon as he hears the voice. Of course he recognizes it, but his brain doesn’t want to acknowledge the connection. This isn’t John, it can’t be John.

He supposes this is how Sherlock felt, only ten times worse.

He turns around slowly, wondering if he’s about to get killed. “John,” he greets as calmly as he can, observing the man standing at the darkened corner of his office. “Or should I say Moriarty?”

The blond man smirks and shrugs casually. “I don’t really care.” He comes out of the shadows and Greg can’t help to notice the sharp contrast between the man standing in front of him and the man he’s used to see around Sherlock: they look exactly the same except for the clothes and yet- “What do you want?” he demands, refusing to back down.

“I like you, Detective Inspector,” John says, the smug smirk still on his lips. “You’re brave. A remarkable quality.”

“What-do-you-want?” Greg enunciates very clearly and the other man chuckles.

“Straight to the point, huh?” he comes to stand closer and Greg fights his sudden urge to flee. There’s something terribly menacing about the other male and yet he refuses to be intimidated. He has dealt with dangerous criminals before; he’s not one to run from danger. “I was merely making you a friendly visit. And a friendly suggestion, of course.”

“What do you mean?”

“I meant you’re wasting your time,” John/Moriarty tells him, pointing at the papers Greg is carrying. “You can’t catch me, Detective Inspector.”

“We will,” the older man assures him, even if he feels quite doubtful. John chuckles amusedly.

“Well, good luck with that. Especially without Sherlock’s help.” He turns around, heading towards the door, looking completely unbothered.

“What makes you think he won’t help?”

John looks at him over his shoulder and offers him a crazed smile. “You think he will?” he laughs then, a hollow and awful sound. “Of course he won’t. He wouldn’t ‘betray’ me. But go ahead, ask him.” He starts walking once more. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

The door of his office closes, leaving the DI completely alone. He’s shaking, although he doesn’t know if it’s nerves, anger or actual fear.

With a weary sigh, he pulls out his phone and makes a call.

* * *

 

“It was- it was completely surreal.” Gregory shivers, although Mycroft can’t tell if it’s out of nerves, disgust or fear. He is careful not to react and just nods encouragingly. The DI carries on. “He was nothing like the John I know. It was- like he was a completely different person, you know? Utterly different. I- God, I can’t imagine what Sherlock felt. I was- I was completely unnerved and I don’t- I don’t-”

He shivers once more and Mycroft frowns. He doesn’t like the turn things are taking, not one bit. “You should go home. Get some rest.”

“Yeah,” Gregory agrees quickly, shaking his head in despair. “Mycroft I- I’m worried about Sherlock. With what Moriarty said I-”

Mycroft nods grimly. “I’ll keep an eye on him. Don’t worry.”

The other man sighs, obviously unconvinced, but doesn’t say anything more.

They spend the rest of the drive in silence.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone? I rather like this chapter. But well… I worry it feels a bit rushed.  
> Let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock continues mourning, Mycroft gets a phonecall and Lestrade worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a new chapter! I did say I had to rethink my posting strategy so… I decided to update twice this week ;)  
> Enjoy?

There are days when the sadness threatens to drown him. The pain is so much that he fears he’ll go insane with it. There are days when indulging in his old vice sounds like a perfect, logical solution.

It’s like going through withdrawal once more, now that he thinks about it.

But no drug is this addictive. No drug could ever give him such high just to let him fall into the despair the way _this_ has.

He doesn’t even know what ‘this’ is. Missing John? Having lost his only true friend? Mourning his lost love? Yes. Yes to it all.

He’s in hell. And he doesn’t know what to do.

Mycroft visits almost daily. Mrs. Hudson comes to check on him at least every hour. Lestrade calls whenever he has some time off. He can’t stand their worried, _pitying_ looks. It only reminds him of what he has lost and how much of a fool he was.

Everything seems bleak ever since John left. He has stopped eating (at least on his own volition, because Mrs. Hudson somehow manages to force him). He hasn’t showered in weeks, he hasn’t been out not even for a little bit. It’s pointless, really. He’s barely surviving, but he can’t bring himself to care.

What is left to live for, anyway?

With a sigh, he goes back to sleep, knowing he’ll find no relief even in his dreams. How could he, when he dreams of the man he lost? Of the man that never really existed, except in his mind? Of the man that was just playing with him, leading him on, making him believe-?

He groans in frustration and feels tears rolling down his cheeks. He doesn’t bother to wipe them; he’s all alone now. There’s no longer a flatmate to see him, to care about him, to worry-

How could he be so blind? How could he miss it?

It was obvious. It was obvious John wasn’t real.

Because obviously, nobody would ever stay.

Nobody would ever love him enough.

He should have known.

* * *

 

“Your efforts are really lovely, Mycroft. Your concern for your brother is… overwhelming.”

Mycroft forces himself not to hang up immediately, despite every nerve in his body urging him to. He recognizes the voice of course, but just as Gregory said, there’s something off with John’s tone.

It probably has to do with the fact that he’s not talking to John, he supposes.

“What do you want?”

There’s a long pause on the other side of the line and then the sound of something being hit. Mycroft frowns, but before he can think too long about it his interlocutor continues. “Just calling for an update. How’s dear Sherlock doing? I would call him myself, but I get the feeling-”

“Stay away from my brother,” Mycroft hisses darkly and the other man chuckles.

“Or what?”

Mycroft tightens his grip on the phone and once more fights the urge to just hang up. “I’m going to catch you and when I do-”

Laughter. Maniacal laughter. “You can’t,” John utters with absolute conviction. “Say hi to Sherlock for me, would you?”

The call gets disconnected and Mycroft tosses his phone against the wall. He’s frustrated and worried; Moriarty is right. It’s unlikely he’ll manage to catch him unless he makes a mistake and the chances of that happening…

He rubs his temples tiredly and decides it’s time for his daily visit to his brother. A rather pointless endeavour, to be honest, since Sherlock barely reacts, no matter how purposely annoying Mycroft is being and the older Holmes is getting more and more worried.

Nothing to do though. He’ll just have to hope that time will heal the wound.

* * *

 

Greg tries bringing cases to Sherlock. Most of them are easy enough that he would be able to solve them without the genius help, but he knows the younger man needs the distraction. Otherwise it’s hard to predict what he would do.

But Sherlock ignores him. Even the slightly more interesting ones are quickly dismissed by the consulting detective, who seems too lost in his own misery to care about anything else. Greg understands him, of course; it’s not easy to lose someone you love and considering the way Sherlock lost John…

God, that Moriarty is some twisted fucker.

In all the time he has known Sherlock he never saw him connect with someone the way he did with John. The affection between the two of them had seemed so honest, so pure, that Greg knew that more than one of the officers at the Yard had been jealous of it. Now that the farce has been discovered of course every single one of them pity the genius, even if Greg has heard more than one commenting how that makes much more sense.

John had been Sherlock’s best and only friend and Greg is fairly certain the consulting detective harbored stronger feelings for his flatmate but now-

He must be going through hell.

He meets Mycroft at the entrance and they share a grim nod. Sherlock’s brother looks tired and it seems like he has aged at least ten years in these last few days. Greg knows that the brothers relationship is complicated at best but he also knows that the older Holmes cares deeply about his younger sibling and that he blames himself for not seeing the lie John Watson was.

Moriarty made fools out of all of them.

But Sherlock is the one who’s paying the highest price.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts anyone?  
> There’s really nothing much going on in this chapter, but well… I felt it was sort of necessary. I hope it was enjoyable?  
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock deals with The Woman, gets a latenight visitor and Mycroft feels guilty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! Sorry for the late update, my day has been a little busy…  
> Enjoy?

Time passes and Sherlock seems to recover, to an extent. Mycroft knows that his brother is far from being over the whole John/Moriarty incident, but at least he doesn’t seem like he’s going to do something particularly stupid any day now.

When asked, Sherlock agrees to help with some cases for the Yard. He’s even more picky about them than ever before, but well… Mycroft is willing to count it as progress.

Which is why he asks for his help on the situation with Irene Adler.

That, as it turns out, it’s just another situation in which he failed to protect his little brother.

* * *

 

As Irene enlist her demands, Sherlock wonders how could he be so foolish. It’s true that he was at a bad place; vulnerable and mourning his lost love, an easy prey for someone like Irene. He hates how ridiculously fragile this whole ordeal with Moriarty has left him and yet-

His phone buzzes. He opens the message unthinkingly and promptly tosses the phone against the wall, startling both his brother and The Woman.

_Didn’t you learn your lesson, Sherlock dear? I'd advise against sentiment._

Sherlock closes his eyes, trying to keep the pain at bay. Moriarty’s words taunt him, but they also give him sudden inspiration; now he knows what Irene’s password is.

A hollow victory, but a victory all the same.

* * *

 

It’s late at night when Sherlock hears someone coming upstairs. He pauses his sad melody and turns towards the door slowly, cold dread filling his every pore.

“Evening,” John greets, his smile calm and self satisfied.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and wills himself to keep his cool. It’s hard, really hard. Just when he thought he was finally starting to move on-

But if he had been moving on, he wouldn’t have fell prey of Irene’s games, would he?

“I’m disappointed Sherlock,” his not-friend tells him, walking into the living room and taking a seat on the couch. He looks around the room, a slight frown on his face. “What happened to my chair?”

“It blocked my view of the kitchen,” Sherlock tells him darkly, narrowing his eyes.

John smiles maniacally at him. “Oh, Sherlock. So sentimental.” He crosses his legs, obviously at ease. “As I was saying, I’m deeply disappointed. I thought we had something especial,” John says, his tone mocking and condescending.

Sherlock glares. “That was before you turned out to be a criminal mastermind.”

The other male chuckles darkly. “Oh darling, I could still make it worth your while.”

Sherlock is careful to ignore his bodily reaction at the sultry tone, aiming to look completely unbothered. “I’m not interested.”

John seems to hesitate for a second but then he stands up and quickly makes his way to Sherlock, crowding his space and making the consulting detective try desperately to retreat, until his back is pressed against the window and John is pressing against him. “Aren’t you, really?” the criminal whispers, his lips ghosting over Sherlock’s and the younger man gulps audibly.

For a long while, none of them move or speak at all. Sherlock can feel his body reacting to the other’s closeness, but forces himself to stay in control of his traitorous hormones. “Don’t you want me, Sherlock?” the other man whispers, pressing even closer, robbing the air out of Sherlock’s lungs.

It’s too much. Far too much. He can’t deal with this, he can’t resist the temptation. More importantly: he doesn’t want to resist. It’s wrong, terribly so, because this isn’t the man he fell in love with but at the same he sort of is and isn’t that enough?

No, not really, but his body doesn’t seem to care about the difference.

He kisses John like he dreamt of doing before this whole nightmare began. The other man moans into the kiss, his hands coming to grip Sherlock’s hips almost painfully, but Sherlock doesn’t care. Instead he lets his violin drop, not caring for a second about the damage his precious instrument might suffer, so he can grab John by the lapels of his suit jacket and keep him exactly where he is.

John slides a tight between Sherlock’s and the younger man lets out an almost pained whimper. His skin feels like it’s on fire and he’s fairly certain his legs won’t hold him up for much longer, so he pushes John off him, just in order to drag him towards the bedroom.

John stops him. Sherlock tugs at the other’s wrist desperately, the more logical part of his mind screaming at him that this is the perfect time to stop this madness, but the rest of him begging to continue. John, however, seems to have made the decision for him.

“Not tonight, darling,” he tells him softly, almost lovingly, something almost sad in his eyes. “I’ve got other things to do tonight.”

Sherlock is barely aware of the whimper leaving his lips and the other male smirks at him, all hint of softness gone (was it ever there? did he imagine it?) “Eager, aren’t we?” the blond tells him, caressing his cheek absentmindedly. He presses a kiss against his temple. “Soon my dear. I’ll be back.”

And with that, he’s gone. He’s gone so quickly that Sherlock wonders if it was all an hallucination, a product of his desire and longing, but his broken violin seems to suggests it wasn’t.

With a groan, he collapses on the couch.

Just what was he thinking?

* * *

 

Sherlock suffers of a relapse and Mycroft isn’t sure it’s entirely because of The Woman’s case. His brother is jittery and he looks deeply miserable once more; it’s almost as bad as it was the day after the pool incident.

“John was here last night,” his brother confesses finally, avoiding his eyes and Mycroft tenses. His eyes quickly scan the younger male, looking for injuries and other clues about what might have happened the night before.

Sherlock bites his lip, looking haunted. Mycroft stares at him evenly, knowing that he has to be patient and let his brother tell him as much as he’s comfortable with, but also feeling a bit desperate for answers.

“I- we-” Sherlock gulps, closing his eyes as if in pain. Mycroft fights  to not let his emotions show, even if all his instincts are screaming at him to gather his baby brother in his arms and protect him from the evil of the world. “Nothing. Nothing happened.”

“Sherlock-”

“I can’t- I can’t talk about it.” Sherlock’s words trouble Mycroft deeply, but he knows he won’t gain nothing if he presses.

“Okay. But if you need to talk to someone- if you need something-”

“It’s fine. Perfectly fine.” Sherlock laughs bitterly. “Everything is dandy.”

Mycroft refrains himself from commenting. He has an idea of what happened and yet prays to God that it isn’t what he’s imagining, because if it was-

Jim Moriarty is a very dead man.

Nobody hurts his baby brother and gets away with it.

* * *

 

Sherlock dreams of what would have happened if John had followed him to his room. Would he have been careful with him? Would the sex have been slow and tender or rough and painful? Would John have kissed him afterwards, whispering soft terms of endearment, as he usually did in Sherlock’s previous fantasies?

He’s not sure. He thinks not. He thinks he would have woken up to an empty bed and hurtful memories. He thinks Moriarty would have been unkind with him, leaving him bruised and pained, both in soul and body.

So it’s for the best that nothing happened.

Then why does he keep thinking about it and wishing things hadn’t ended when they did?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> In my original plan, things didn’t end where they did, but I just- it didn’t feel quite right. Consent issues is something I really don’t feel comfortable writing and letting things progress, to me, would have been getting too close to that so..  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft has doubts, Sherlock has a bad day and Greg worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I hope you enjoy it!

Mycroft watches Anthea carefully, thinking her words over. It seems… a far fetched possibility, to be honest, but-

John’s sister disappeared the day after the pool incident. Which made perfect sense; if you had a fake sister, it makes sense she disappears when she’s no longer needed to provide some background.

Mike Stanford, the doctor that introduced Sherlock and John in the first place had also gone missing. There were quite a few suspicious things about Mike’s own past that Mycroft overlooked the first time around: he started working at Bart’s just six months before Sherlock was introduced to the army doctor, so it’s entirely possible-

What’s the truth?

“What’s crazier? To think that someone broke into numerous databases to create a new identity and paid enough people to lie about knowing him or to believe that someone did the reverse thing to make someone’s existence a lie?” Anthea asks reasonably and Mycroft frowns. Both things are quite crazy, to be honest.

“If you’re right-” Mycroft starts and then stops himself. He can’t gamble his brother’s well-being on a bunch of suppositions. He needs proof, tangible proof that John Watson does exist and that it wasn’t all an elaborate scheme of Moriarty. “We need to find him.”

The female nods seriously. “We found a place that- we think we might be onto something.”

Mycroft nods. “Report back when you have further information.”

With that, his assistant leaves and Mycroft considers the new information. He glances at John’s file and wonders. It seems like going through a lot of trouble just to hurt Sherlock, but then again… Moriarty is not the sanest of people. He probably doesn’t care about the resources he might have spent on this, he probably just cares about how entertaining he’s finding the whole ordeal.

Mycroft can only wait for his team to confirm or deny Anthea’s suspicion.

To be honest, he doesn’t know what he would prefer.

* * *

 

Sherlock is having a bad day.

They’re rare now, almost 6 months after the pool incident, even if he did have a very bad week after the incident with Irene Adler (and John’s visit). Still, for the most part, he’s doing well.

But today… today fighting the sadness feels like too much of an effort and so instead he lets it drown him.

He sits at John’s now empty room. He knows Mycroft had the room perfectly cleaned on the week after the truth came out, but two sweaters and a pair of jeans survived the purge due the fact they got mixed with Sherlock’s dirty laundry. Sherlock left the mementos at the empty room and on days like this, he comes upstairs and stares at them.

He picks up a sweater and brings it to his nose. The smell has faded, of course, but Sherlock imagines he can still smell John. It’s probably silly and pathetic, but nobody needs to know of the small comforts he takes on his memories.

He hugs the fabric close as he feels a sob making it’s way out of his mouth. He clings to the item as tears run down his cheeks, his misery quickly overtaking him. He doesn’t know how he got to this point, how did he allow himself to be so vulnerable, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters-

It would probably be for the best if he deleted the last two years from his memory. It would be the sane, safe thing to do. But he can’t; even if they’re false memories, even if nothing John ever did or say was real…

Sherlock’s feelings were. And he has learned his lesson: never let himself be vulnerable again. Now, more than ever, he’ll be careful with his heart, guarding it against any further harm.

So maybe this experience wasn’t entirely pointless.

He hugs the sweater tighter and cries.

* * *

 

Greg isn’t sure how he feels about being stuck with babysitting duty once more. He did it once before, when Sherlock was still struggling with his drug addiction, but he honestly thought they were past that.

He didn’t account for a madman making Sherlock fall in love with him and then leaving, of course.

The thing is that he do cares for Sherlock and so he doesn’t mind watching over him for the most part, but on days like today, when things were hectic at the office, his team was being difficult and they managed to lose their one suspect, he really, really wishes he didn’t have to do this.

Still, he soldiers on. He promised he would go and check on the consulting detective and that’s exactly what he’s going to do.

He walks into the apartment and finds it unnaturally quiet. With a frown, he checks the kitchen, living room and Sherlock’s room, finding them empty. He’s nervous by now, wondering where exactly the younger man might be and what he might be doing.

He hopes, desperately hopes, that Sherlock won’t fall back into his old vice but then again-

A soft sound gets his attention and so he listens closely. It seems to be coming from upstairs and the DI’s frown deepens; John’s room is supposed to be empty, so what-?

With his heart beating furiously, the detective takes out his gun and climbs the stairs very slowly, careful of not making much noise. The door is half open, so he peers inside, ready to spring into defense if needed.

What he finds takes his breath away.

Sherlock is curled on the floor, holding a piece of clothing to his chest. He seems to have fallen asleep and is snoring very softly due the undoubtedly uncomfortable position he ended up in. He’s been crying, Greg can tell by the dried tears and the DI sighs, suddenly feeling very old and very tired.

How did things come to this? How could he have failed to see-?

Well, to be fair, Greg isn’t the consulting genius. He doesn’t notice the things the Holmes brothers do, but he has always prided himself on being good at judging character. His instinct rewarding people's intentions haven’t failed him this far, so how could he miss that John Watson was in fact a disturbed criminal mind?

He goes back to the living room, figuring Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate being caught on such a vulnerable moment. If nothing else, he can at least let Sherlock keep his pride.

With a sigh, he collapses on the couch and closes his eyes.

It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

 

“Are you sure?”

Anthea nods tightly and Mycroft eyes the file she has just handed him once more. He really doesn’t know what he ought to do, but- “Bring him to me.”

His assistant nods and exits the office, already typing orders for the team to follow. Mycroft sighs and allows himself to crumble onto his chair, putting his head between his arms and forcing himself to take deep breaths.

This isn’t going to be pleasant.

But it must be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things come to an end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! The final chapter!  
> Enjoy?

John wakes up to a dark room.

Cautiously, he looks around, trying to get some sense of his surroundings. The room is bare, nothing but the chair he’s bound to in it. There are no windows that he can see and just one door that seems to be of solid metal.

He frowns.

His hands are bounded behind him with handcuffs. They seem to be of good quality, so no chance of escaping. His legs have been tied to the uncomfortable metal chair and his head is throbbing, so he guesses someone knocked him out.

He’s not sure what to think.

The door opens slowly, revealing the silhouette of a tall man. John’s breath catches and he quickly forces himself to keep his face blank, knowing what’s at stake if he breaks his facade even for a little while.

“Your sister and friend have already been freed,” Mycroft Holmes tells him calmly. “They’re safe, for now.” John continues staring impassively and the other man frown.  “The hearing implant, as well as all the microphones have also been removed. And since this is one of my own safe houses, I would say I’m perfectly sure no one is listening to our conversation.”

John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Is it over, then? “Why am I tied up?”

Mycroft frowns and comes to stand closer to him. “You’ve caused my brother a lot of grief.” He explains calmly, twirling his umbrella, looking too calm and collected for John’s comfort. “I can’t just let you go without making sure we got it right this time.”

John nods tightly. “So what? You’re going to- what? torture me?”

Mycroft continues observing him closely and John sighs. He supposes it’s better than his previous situation, if not by much. “Just get on with it.” The other man arches an eyebrow and the blond sighs once more. “I just want to get things over with.”

Mycroft nods. “Even if- even if you’re really who you say you are… I’m not sure I’ll let you go back to Baker Street and into my brother’s life. You must understand John: this whole ordeal was killing him inside and I’m not eager to see him go through that again. If you were to go back to him-”

“Moriarty would target me again. He would use me again to hurt him. Yes, I understand.” He closes his eyes, taking deep breaths. “Why not just kill me, then?”

Mycroft hesitates. “I find myself reluctant to do so. Sherlock is bound to find out the truth eventually and learning of your ultimate demise would be… hard on him.”

“So you might have me killed… but you haven’t decided just yet. Lovely,” John says, a tad more sarcastically that he intended. He can’t be blamed though, considering the hell he has been through the last few months. “Just get on with it, Mycroft.”

The older male offers him a sad smile. “Glad we understand each other, Dr. Watson.”

And with that he’s gone, leaving John in the dark to ponder about his desperate situation.

Things aren’t looking up at all.

* * *

 

It’s been a long while since Moriarty’s last visit and nothing on the news suggests any criminal activity he might be behind of, so Sherlock is a little worried. He’s certain this is just the calm before the storm; whatever Moriarty is planning must be something big.

Just thinking about Moriarty makes him ache. In part in anger, in part in pain, in part in longing. He misses John desperately; the apartment feels too empty and quiet with just him here. He knows looking for another flatmate would be a futile effort: nobody could ever take John’s place.

It doesn’t matter that John was never real. In his heart-

Well, better not to think much about that.

He closes his eyes, leaning back on his seat and trying to clear his head. He received a text from Lestrade earlier, asking for his assistance on some case. The DI visits frequently and discreetly checks for signs that Sherlock has succumbed back to the drugs, but of course so far he hasn’t so the older man tries to find things to keep him occupied.

But cases aren’t tantalizing anymore. He doesn’t feel the same rush at solving a mystery; if anything, he just feels more miserable.  There’s nobody to be amazed by his deductions, nobody that really cares about how he does it. The people at the Yard care for one thing and one thing only: the solution to their problems.

It just feels so… pointless.

But he knows he should do it. What else is he going to do, if not that? He won’t take a job from Mycroft and wailing on his self pity can’t be healthy. Besides, if left unoccupied, he’ll eventually go back to some unsavory solutions for boredom.

With a sigh he stands up and gets ready to go out.

Time to get back to work.

* * *

 

Sherlock comes back to Baker Street that evening, Lestrade following him, probably sensing that the case had rattled Sherlock a bit (the victim’s resemblance to John had been rather unnerving). He tries to shake the DI off, but of course the man refuses to leave him alone.

All for the best, considering what’s waiting for him at the apartment.

Mycroft is standing by the window, a file in his hand, the picture of perfect indifference. But that’s not what takes Sherlock’s breath away, making him almost faint like a tragic heroine of a romance novel.

No, what takes his breath away is the man sitting at the couch.

John looks awful; there are dark circles beneath his eyes, clear sign that he hasn’t slept in days and he also looks like he hasn’t eaten or drunk anything in a long while. He hasn’t shaved or taken a bath either and that just makes him look even more pitiful.

He was dozing off just before they walked in, but now he seems wide awake and a soft tired smile makes its way to his face. “Sherlock,” he whispers, almost reverently and the consulting detective's heart stops.

“What the hell-?” Lestrade starts, but Mycroft quickly comes their way, interrupting him with a hand on his arm.

“Let’s give them some privacy, Detective Inspector.” Lestrade looks ready to argue, but something in Mycroft’s expression makes him change his mind quickly and he exits the apartment. Mycroft follows, not before handing his brother the file he was holding.

But none of that matters. Nothing matters but the man sitting at the couch, looking bone tired but hopeful.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, going to him and falling on his knees right in front of the doctor. “Oh god, it was all fake?” his voice is a barely audible murmur, full of anguish and yet, hopeful.

“I’m sorry Sherlock,” John whispers, “so sorry.”

“What-?”

“He had Harry and Mike. I couldn’t- I couldn’t let them die for me. And then- then he said he would kill you if I didn’t play along and I thought- I thought-” John is crying by now, tears streaming down his cheeks and Sherlock throws his arms around his friend, never in his life having felt this relieved about something. “I thought that even if you hated me- at least you would be alive to do it.”

“I could never hate you,” he whispers, pulling John even closer. “Never. No matter what.”

John sobs softly against his shoulder and Sherlock tightens his arms around his friend. “I kept praying that you would figure it out. I- I had to be convincing, otherwise Moriarty would have- but I- I hoped you knew me well enough to know that I wouldn’t-”

“I didn’t know what to think,” Sherlock confesses. “I knew deep down that it couldn’t be true, but I keep worrying it was just wishful thinking.” He laughs nervously. “Who would be friends with the Freak, after all?”

John tightens his own arms around the younger male. “You idiot. Don’t say that.”

Sherlock chuckles, pulling away a little so he can press their foreheads together. “John- I- I’m glad you- So glad that you-” he realizes he’s crying too and John smiles sadly at him.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” his friend whispers soothingly. “I’m here now. Everything will be alright now.”

Sherlock nods, convinced that that’s the truth.

Of course they still have to deal with Moriarty, but at least-

At least he has John with him now.

* * *

 

“What was that?” Gregory demands, once they’re out of the apartment, looking somewhere between worried and enraged. Mycroft makes a face, unsure of what he should tell him.

“Moriarty kidnapped Dr. Watson and forced him to act like he had been the criminal mastermind all along. An effective tactic, designed to keep my brother from interfering with his schemes.”

The DI seems to consider that for a while. “And you’re sure-”

“Yes,” Mycroft replies plainly, but it must be enough for the other man, because he doesn’t make any more questions.

“Well then… I should get going, then. I assume they’ll have much to discuss.”

Mycroft nods. “May I offer you a ride?”

Gregory spares a last glance in the direction of 221B and then nods. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

It’s been an eventful night.

* * *

 

“John?”

It’s almost midnight now. Sherlock and John are still at the living room, curled around each other on the couch. They haven’t moved, except to get more comfortable, uncaring of anything else but the other’s presence.

“Yeah?” the doctor questions softly, running a hand through Sherlock’s curls, earning a soft purr from the younger male. “What’s the matter?”

Sherlock bites his lip, wondering if he should bring the matter up at all. He thinks it’s probably a bad idea, but he can’t help himself. “When I kissed you-” he can feel John tensing and so he closes his eyes, thinking he has his answer. “Forget it. Nevermind.”

John stays still for a couple of seconds and then he moves, making Sherlock flinch. He shouldn’t have say anything, really, but-

His thoughts get interrupted by John’s lips on his. The kiss is gentler, less desperate than their first one but just as sweet, making the consulting detective moan helplessly. He can feel John smiling against his lips and he relaxes completely, happy that this, at least, was real.

“I should have told you ages ago,” John murmurs between kisses and Sherlock laughs.

“So should have I. But now you know and that’s what matters.”

They don’t speak much after that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… I’m not sure about the ending. It feels a bit simplistic but well… I don’t know.  
> Let me know what you thought, pretty please?  
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me in [tumblr](http://ylc1.tumblr.com/)


End file.
